Two in Time

by Wilson Tucker

  Again a quietness, until he continued: “But according to your report, Jack my friend, this is a spasm. Afterward the bulk of mankind will reject scientism, will reject science itself and only keep what ossified technology is needful to maintain the world, They will become ever more inward-turning, contempla­tive, mystical; the common man will look to the sage for en­lightenment, who himself will look into himself. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know,” Havig said. “I have that impression, but nothing more than the impression. Mostly, you realize, I don’t understand so much as the languages. One or two I can barely puzzle out, but I’ve never had the time to spare for gaining any­thing like fluency. It’s taken me years of lifespan to learn what little I have learned about you Maurai. Uptime, they’re further removed from me.”

  “And the paradox is deepened,” Keajimu said, “by the con­trasting sights you have seen. In the middle of a pastoral land­scape, spires which hum and shimmer with enigmatic energies. Noiseless through otherwise empty skies glide enormous ships which seem to be made less of metal than of force. And … the symbols on a statue, in a book, chiseled across a lintel, re­vealed by the motion of a hand ... they are nothing you can comprehend. You cannot imagine where they came from. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Havig said miserably. “Carelo, what should I do?”

  “I think you are at a stage where the question is, What should I learn?”

  “Carelo, I, I’m a single man trying to see a thousand years. I can’t! I just, well, feel this increasing doubt ... that the Eyrie could possibly bring forth those machine aspects ... Then what will?”

  Keajimu touched him, a moth-wing gesture. “Be calm. A man can do but little. Enough if that little be right.”

  “What’s right? Is the future a tyranny of a few technic mas­ters over a humankind that’s turned lofty-minded and passive because this world holds nothing except wretchedness? If that’s true, what can be done?”

  “As a practical politician, albeit retired,” Keajimu said with that sudden dryness which could always startle Havig out of a mood, “I suspect you are overlooking the more grisly possibili­ties. Plain despotism can be outlived. But we Maurai, in our concentration on biology, may have left a heritage worse than the pain it forestalls.”

  “What?” Havig tensed on his straw mat.

  “Edged metal may chop firewood or living flesh,” Keajimu declared. “Explosives may clear away rubble or inconvenient human beings. Drugs--well, I will tell you this is a problem that currently troubles our government in its most secret councils. We have chemicals which do more than soothe or stimulate. Under their influence, the subject comes to believe whatever he is told. In detail. As you do in a dream, supplying every nec­essary bit of color or sound, happiness or fear, past or future.”

  “To what extent dare we administer these potions to our key troublemakers?”

  “I am almost glad to learn that the hegemony of the Federa­tion will go under before this issue becomes critical. The guilt cannot, therefore, be ours.” Keajimu bowed toward Havig. “But you, poor time wanderer, you must think beyond the next century. Come, this evening know peace. Observe the stars tread forth, inhale the incense, hear the songbird, feel the breeze, be one with Earth.”

  I sat alone over a book in my cottage in Senlac, November 1969. The night outside was brilliantly clear and ringingly cold. Frostflowers grew on my windowpanes.

  A Mozart symphony lilted from a record player, and the words of Yeats were on my lap, and a finger or two of Scotch stood on the table by my easy chair, and sometimes a memory crossed my mind and smiled at me. It was a good hour for an old man.

  Knuckles thumped the door. I said an uncharitable word, hauled my body up, constructed excuses while I crossed the rug. My temper didn’t improve when Fiddlesticks slipped between my ankles and nearly tripped me. I only kept the damn cat be­cause he had been Kate’s. A kitten when she died, he was now near his ending--As I opened the door, winter flowed in around me. The ground beyond was not snow-covered, but it was frozen. Upon it stood a man who shivered in his inadequate topcoat. He was of medium height, slim, blond, sharp-featured. His age was hard to guess, though furrows were deep in his face.

  Half a decade without sight of him had not dimmed my memories. “Jack!” I cried. A wave of faintness passed through me.

  He entered, shut the door, said in a low and uneven voice, “Doc, you’ve got to help me. My wife is dying.”

  12

  “CHILLS AND FEVER, chest pain, cough, sticky reddish sputum yes, sounds like lobar pneumonia,” I nodded. “What’s scarier is that development of headache, backache, and stiff neck. Could be meningitis setting in.”

  Seated on the edge of a chair, mouth writhing, Havig im­plored, “What to do? An antibiotic--”

  “Yes, yes. I’m not enthusiastic about prescribing for a patient I’ll never see, and letting a layman give the treatment. I would definitely prefer to have her in an oxygen tent.”

  “I could ferry--” he began, and slumped. “No. A big enough gas container weighs too much.”

  “Well, she’s young,” I consoled him. “Probably streptomycin will do the trick.” I was on my feet, and patted his stooped back. “Relax, son. You’ve got time, seeing as how you can re­turn to the instant you left her.”

  “I’m not sure if I do,” he whispered; and this was when he told me everything that had happened.

  In the course of it, fear struck me and I blurted my confes­sion. More than a decade back, in conversation with a writer out California way, I had not been able to resist passing on those hints Havig had gotten about the Maurai epoch on his own early trips thence. The culture intrigued me, what tiny bit I knew; I thought this fellow, trained in speculation, might in­terpret some of the puzzles and paradoxes. Needless to say, the information was presented as sheer playing with ideas. But presented it was, and when he asked my permission to use it in some stories, I’d seen no reason not to agree.

  “They were published,” I said miserably. “In fact, in one of them he even predicted what you’d discover later, that the Maurai would mount an undercover operation against an un­derground attempt to build a fusion generator. What if an Eyrie agent gets put on the track?”

  “Do you have copies?” Havig demanded.

  I did. He skimmed them. A measure of relief eased the lines in his countenance. “I don’t think we need worry,” he said. “He’s changed names and other items; as for the gaps in what you fed him, he’s guessed wrong more often than right. If any­body who knows the future should chance to read this, it’ll look at most like one of science fiction’s occasional close-to-target hits.” His laugh rattled. “Which are made on the shotgun prin­ciple, remember! ... But I doubt anybody will. These stories never had wide circulation. They soon dropped into complete obscurity. Time agents wouldn’t try to scan the whole mass of what gets printed. Assuredly, Wallis’s kind of agents never would.”

  After a moment: “In a way, this reassures me. I begin to think I’ve been over-anxious tonight. Since nothing untoward has happened thus far to you or your relative, it scarcely will. You’ve doubtless been checked up on, and dismissed as of no particular importance to my adult self. That’s a major reason I’ve let a long time pass since our last meeting, Doc--your safety. This other Anderson--why, I’ve never met him at all. He’s a connection of a connection.”

  Again a silence until, grimly: “They haven’t even tried to strike at me through my mother, or bait a trap with her. I sup­pose they figure that’s too obvious, or too risky in this era they aren’t familiar with--or too something-or-other--to be worth­while. Stay discreet, and you should be okay. But you’ve got to help me!”

  Night was grizzled with dawn when at last I asked: “Why come to me? Surely your Maurai have more advanced medicine.”

  “Yeah. Too advanced. Nearly all of it preventive. They con­sider drugs as first aid. So, to the best of my knowledge, theirs are no better than yours for something like Xenia’
s case.”

  I rubbed my chin. The bristles were stiff and made a scratchy noise. “Always did suspect there’s a natural limit to chemo­therapy,” I remarked. “Damn, I’d like to know what they do about virus diseases!”

  Havig stirred stiffly. “Well, give me the ampoules and hypo­dermic and I’ll be on my way,” he said.

  “Easy, easy,” I ordered. “Remember, I’m no longer in prac­tice. I don’t keep high-powered materials around. We’ve got to wait till the pharmacy opens--no, you will not hop ahead to that minute! I want to do a bit of thinking and studying. A different antibiotic might be indicated; streptomycin can have side effects which you’d be unable to cope with. Then you need a little teaching. I’ll bet you’ve never made an injection, let alone nursed a convalescent. And first off, we both require a final dose of Scotch and a long snooze.”

  “The Eyrie--”

  “Relax,” I said again to the haggard man in whom I could see the despair-shattered boy. “You just got through deciding those bandits have lost interest in me. If they were onto your arrival at this point in time, they’d’ve been here to collar you already. Correct?”

  His head moved heavily up and down. “Yeah. I s’pose.”

  “I sympathize with your caution, but I do wish you’d con­sulted me at an earlier stage of your wife’s illness.”

  “Don’t I? ... At first, seemed like she’d only gotten a bad cold. They’re tougher then than we are today. Infants die like flies. Parents don’t invest our kind of love in a baby, not till it’s past the first year or two. By the same token, though, if you survive babyhood the chances are you’ll throw off later sick­nesses. Xenia didn’t go to bed, in spite of feeling poorly, till overnight--” He could not finish.

  “Have you checked her personal future?” I asked.

  The sunken eyes sought me while they fought off sleep. The exhausted voice said: “No. I’ve never dared.”

  Nor will I ever know how well-founded was his fear of fore­seeing when Xenia would die. Did ignorance save his freedom, or merely his illusion of freedom? I know nothing except that he stayed with me for a pair of days, dutifully resting his body and training his hands, until he could minister to his wife. In the end he said good-by, neither of us sure we would come together again; and he drove his rented car to the city airport, and caught his flight to Istanbul, and went pastward with what I had given him, and was captured by the Eyrie men.

  It was likewise November in 1213. Havig had chosen that month out of 1969 because he knew it would be inclement, his enemies not likely to keep a stakeout around my cottage. Along the Golden Horn, the weather was less extreme. However, a chill had blown down from Russia, gathering rain as it crossed the Black Sea. For defense, houses had nothing better than charcoal braziers; hypocausts were too expensive for this climate and these straitened times. Xenia’s slight body shivered, day after day, until the germs awoke in her lungs.

  Havig frequently moved his Istanbul lair across both miles and years. As an extra safety factor, he always kept it on the far side of the strait from his home. Thus he must take a creaky-oared ferry, and walk from the dock up streets nearly deserted. In his left hand hung the chronolog, in his right was clutched a flat case containing the life of his girl. Raindrops spattered out of a lowering grayness, but the mists were what drenched his Frankish cloak, tunic, and trousers, until they clung to his skin and the cold gnawed inward. His footfalls resounded hol­low on slickened cobblestones. Gutters gurgled. Dim amidst swirling vapors, he glimpsed himself hurrying down to the waterfront, hooded against the damp, too frantic to notice him­self. He would have been absent a quarter hour when he re­turned to Xenia. Though the time was about three o’clock in the afternoon, already darkness seeped from below.

  His door was closed, the shutters were bolted, wan lamplight shone through cracks.

  He knocked, expecting the current maid--Eulalia, was that her name?--to lift the latch and grumble him in. She’d be sur­prised to see him back this soon, but the hell with her.

  Hinges creaked. Gloom gaped beyond. A man in Byzantine robe and beard occupied the doorway. The shotgun in his grasp bulked monstrous. “Do not move, Havig,” he said in English. “Do not try to escape. Remember, we hold the woman.”

  Save for an ikon of the Virgin, their bedroom was decorated in gaiety. Seen by what light trickled in a glazed window, the painted flowers and beasts jeered. It was wrong that a lamb should gambol above Xenia where she lay. She was so small and thin in her nightgown. Skin, drawn tight across the frail bones, was like new-fallen snow dappled with blood. Her mouth was dry, cracked, and gummed. Only the hair, tumbling loose over her bosom, and the huge frightened eyes had luster.

  The man in East Roman guise, whom Havig did not know, held his left arm in a practiced grip. Juan Mendoza had the right, and smirked each time he put backward pressure on the elbow joint. He was dressed in Western style, as was Waclaw Krasicki, who stood at the bedside.

  “Where are the servants?” Havig asked mechanically.

  “We shot them,” Mendoza said.

  “What--”

  “They didn’t recognize a gun, so that wouldn’t scare them. We couldn’t let a squawk warn you. Shut up.”

  The shock of knowing they were dead, the hope that the children had been spared and that an orphanage might take them in, struck Havig dully, like a blow on flesh injected with painkiller. Xenia’s coughing tore him too much.

  “Hauk,” she croaked, “no, Jon, Jon--” Her hands lifted to­ward him, strengthless, and his were caught immobile.

  Krasicki’s broad visage had noticeably aged. Years of his lifespan must have passed, uptime, downtime, everywhen an outrage was to be engineered. He said in frigid satisfaction:

  “You may be interested to know what a lot of work went on for how long, tracking you down. You’ve cost us, Havig.”

  “Why ... did ... you bother?” the prisoner got out.

  “You did not imagine we could leave you alone, did you? Not just that you killed men of ours. You’re not an ignorant lout, you’re smart and therefore dangerous. I’ve been giving this job my personal attention.”

  Havig thought drearily: What an overestimate of me.

  “We must know what you’ve been doing,” Krasicki con­tinued. “Take my advice and cooperate.”

  “How did you--?”

  “Plenty of detective work. We reasoned, if a Greek family was worth to you what you did, you’d keep in touch with them. You covered your trail well, I admit. But given our limited per­sonnel, and the problems in working here, and everything else we had to do throughout history--you needn’t feel too smug about your five-year run. Naturally, when we did close in, we chose this moment for catching you. The whole neighborhood knows your wife is seriously ill. We waited till you went out, expecting you’d soon be back.” Krasicki glanced at Xenia. “And cooperative, no?”

  She shuddered and barked, as an abandoned dog had barked while her father was slain. Blood colored the mucus she cast up.

  “Christ!” Havig screamed. “Let me go! Let me treat her!”

  “Who are they, Jon?” she pleaded. “What do they want? Where is your saint?”

  “Besides,” Mendoza said, “Pat Moriarty was a friend of mine.” He applied renewed pressure, barely short of fracturing.

  Through the ragged darknesses which pain rolled across him, Havig heard Krasicki: “If you behave, if you come along with us, not making trouble, okay, we’ll leave her in peace. I’ll even give her a shot from that kit I guess you went to fetch.”

  “That ... isn’t ... enough ... Please, please--”

  “It’s as much as she’ll get. I tell you, we’ve already wasted whole man-years on your account. Don’t make us waste more, and take added risks. Look, would you rather we broke her arms?”

  Havig sagged and wept.

  Krasicki kept his promise, but his insertion of the needle was clumsy and Xenia shrieked. “It’s well, it’s well, my darling, everything’s well, the saints w
atch over you,” Havig cried from the far side of a chasm which roared. To Krasicki: “Listen, let me say good-by to her, you’ve got to, I’ll do anything you ask if you let me say good-by.”

  Krasicki shrugged. “Okay, if you’re quick.”

  Mendoza and the other man kept their hold on Havig while he stooped above his girl. “I love you,” he told her, not know­ing if she really heard him through the fever and terror. The mummy lips that his touched were not those he remembered.

  “All right,” Krasicki said, “let’s go.”

  Uptime bound, Havig lost awareness of the men on either side of him. They had substance to his senses, like his own body, but only the shadow-flickers in the room were real. He saw her abandoned, reaching and crying; he saw her become still; he saw someone who must have grown worried and broken down the door step in, days later; he saw confusion, and then the chamber empty, and then strangers in it.

  So he might have resisted, willed himself to stay in normal time at their first stop for air, an inertness which his captors could not move. But there are ways to erode any will. Better not arrive at the Eyrie crippled alike in body and spirit, ready for whatever might occur to Caleb Wallis. Better keep the capability of revenge.

  That thought was vague. The whole of him was drowned in her death. He scarcely noticed how the shadows shifted--the house which had been hers and his torn down for a larger, which caught fire when the Turks took Pera, and was succeeded by building after building filled with faces and faces and faces, until the final incandescence and the drifting radioactive ash--nor their halt among ruins, their flight across the ocean, their further journey to that future where the Sachem waited. In him was nothing except Xenia, who saw him vanish and lay back to die alone, unshriven.

  While summer blanketed the Eyrie in heat and brazen light, the tower room where Havig was confined stored cool dimness in its bricks. It was bare save for a washstand, a toilet, a mat­tress, and two straight chairs. A single window gave upon the castle, the countryside, the peasants at labor for their masters. When you had looked out into yonder sunshine, you were blind for a while.